


The Crowing Of A Rooster

by gala_apples



Series: An Alphabet of Teen Wolf Crossovers [17]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M, Monster of the Week, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's already got enough problems, dealing with Beacon Hills' new basilisk infestation. The last thing he needs is for Stiles to contact an old one night stand of his. Unfortunately, Stiles has never been the kind of teenager that pays attention to common sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crowing Of A Rooster

**Author's Note:**

> Happy wedding, nightmage_07! I hope you have the best night, and the best life!

Derek doesn’t always climb through Stiles’ window. The way Stiles goes on about it you’d think Derek did it on an hourly basis, but as with most things, he’s full of it. More often than not they’ll meet at the scene of the crime, or at the loft. 

That’s not to say there aren’t occasions when it happens. Such as now. 

Last week Stiles set the grass on fire in a restricted fire zone. It wasn’t malicious ignorance towards wildfire threats, it was the aftermath of a basilisk attack. Clean up had to be done; basilisk venom has no half-life. Someone stepping on the poisoned grass six months later would still die instantly. Unfortunately Stiles got caught, and a Deputy not in the know arrested him. No one was surprised when Stiles walked out of court without jail time, the system is biased like that, but the fine was hefty.

Stiles’ dad might understand the necessity, but Sheriff Stilinski is pissed. Angry and more importantly not allowing visitors. Derek doesn’t consider staying away an option though. So far the basilisk seems to be a one off, but that’s not going to last long. Contrary to popular myth of a single egg laid by a cock at midnight, the Bestiary says the deadly creature is born in a litter, like all snakes are. While Derek knows he and Scott and Malia can handle killing the beasts if it comes to it -they should heal faster than the venom kills- Stiles and Lydia are hoping to put a stop to the situation before they hatch. And one thing Derek is sure of is that Stiles works better in the presence of someone hovering. 

Case in point; Stiles is alone, and Stiles isn’t doing anything productive. He’s watching someone yelling on Youtube. Someone _familiar_ yelling on-

“Wait. I know that voice.” Derek says, feet coming to a rest on the area rug underneath the sill. Stiles calls it his wolfie welcome mat. Derek hasn’t bothered to be offended by the phrase since the first time the kid said it. If Stiles doesn’t want dirt on his floor he doesn’t want dirt on his floor.

Stiles hardly jumps at the sudden interruption. Derek knows it’s the hypervigilance that makes Stiles’ senses nearly as heightened as the supernatural members of the pack. He knows that the condition isn’t particularly healthy for the teen. He also knows that in a little less than a year and a half, Stiles is going to make Ivy League, and he’ll be out of this forever. Derek isn’t going to suggest walking away early, whether or not it’s the better thing for him.

“Yeah, duh,” Stiles says dismissively as he pauses the video and swivels to face Derek. “Ragequits, only the funniest fucking thing on Youtube.”

“No, not from some viral thing.” Derek doesn’t exactly pay attention to memes. The last one he knew anything about was Double Rainbow. “I _know_ him.”

Stiles scoffs. “Look, I’d know if Michael Jones had ever been in Beacon Hills. You don’t know how hard a decision it was between paying for Roscoe’s water pump replacement or a RTX ticket.”

“I know him from New York.”

“You mean when you and your sister...” Stiles uncharacteristically trails off. Derek doesn’t often indulge himself of the happy memories from before, and no one ever asks him about it. Maybe he just doesn’t have the face for nostalgia.

Derek nods. “Yes. I slept with him.”

“You did not!” Stiles shouts. He spins in his computer chair, types something into Google and turns his laptop to show Derek the screen. It’s an image search of Michael. “Him?”

“Yes,” Derek replies, exasperated as usual. He’s not lying about the voice. Why would he bother?

Stiles has leapt to his feet, like Derek’s sexual past is the revelation of a lifetime. If Stiles found out about Kate, Derek could understand the reaction, but not now. Not with some random one night stand.

“Putting aside the frankly mind-blowing claim, why didn’t I know you were bisexual? Everyone knows I’m bisexual.”

Derek doesn’t shrug. If he does there’s a fifty percent chance that Stiles will derail into a gleeful rant about ‘is Derek Hale _unsure_ of something? Call the media!’ and Derek doesn’t need that aggravation. What he needs to do is get Stiles back on task with the basilisk eggs. But he’s smarter -or at least more experienced- than to think that changing the topic will do anything. Stiles will only dig in, like the annoying shit he is. Derek just needs to end this conversation as quickly as possible. To do that he goes with something undisputable. “It never came up.”

“But if Jennifer had been Jason you still would have banged him?”

“Yes.” As much as Derek hates to think of that moment of falling into the same naive trap he did as a teenager, putting a man into that venomous space does nothing to the outcome in his mind.

Stiles nods contemplatively. Not that he should have anything to mull over, in Derek’s opinion. Attraction is attraction, who cares what gender someone likes? 

Stiles pushes off on his desk, hard. His chair makes a full 360 rotation before an outstretched palm stops him. Facing the laptop again he unpauses the Michael Jones video. For about three seconds. Michael doesn’t get more than an expletive out, and Derek doesn’t have the time to open his mouth and tell the teen to turn it off before Stiles stops the video again. 

“Do you have any proof? Did you take a picture?”

If there’s anything that makes Derek yearn to regress to his year ago Alpha-self, it’s Stiles getting stuck in an obnoxious rut. But Derek doesn’t throw him bodily against the markerboard. He’s grown as a person like that. “He was a one night stand and I didn’t know he was famous.”

“But you were sober?” Stiles asks. “And you’re sure it’s him?”

Short, definitive answers clearly didn’t do the trick. He’ll try details next. “I recognise the voice. The morning after, yes, I slept there, I woke up to him shouting. I thought maybe he was a two beer queer now sober and sober he was regretful. As I started to sneak out I noticed he wasn’t yelling at the stranger he’d fucked, he was yelling at his video game. It was funny. I stayed for breakfast.”

“Milk and cereal over Michael Jones and The Impossible Game.”

Derek shakes his head. “It looked hard, but I wouldn’t say-”

Stiles holds up his palm like an undergrown traffic cop. “No, stop. Nevermind. It was a reference.” Just like that he switches directions. “Okay, but you didn’t come over to tell me you buttfucked my idol. What’s up?”

“The eggs Stiles, remember?” Derek of a year ago would have smashed the teen’s head against the drywall. Derek of now just makes it obvious he’s not impressed.

“Yeah, I know. But I don’t have yarn, and I can’t do this shit without my thinking string.”

“You have an evidence board.” Weirdest birthday present ever, if you ask Derek, but Stiles was thrilled.

“Virgil’s for lists and timelines and questions. I still need yarn for mapwork. Finding fifty egg sacs in Beacon Hills is map work. And I’m hella grounded. The fine was like a thousand dollars. Dad’s more pissed about the crime than proud about the heroics right now. Don’t get all... uppity or whatever. We’ll find ‘em. Lydia’ll do it.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“And don’t go stalk her like you’re doing me. She won’t appreciate it.”

Derek would hardly call this stalking, but Stiles is right. If Lydia doesn’t tell him off, Jordan will. He’s protective of her in a way that will mean something, once she’s graduated.

Derek thinks that’s the end of it. In hindsight he is a stupid stupid man. Of course Stiles wouldn’t let it go. Of course not.

“So I commented to the latest Ragequit,” Stiles says abruptly. It’s a complete non-sequitur to the task at hand; searching this abandoned farmhouse for a nest of eggs. Honestly, Stiles shouldn’t even be here _for_ talking. As a pure human, if a basilisk hatches he’s dead in an instant. But Sheriff Stilinski is at work and can’t stop him, and Scott doesn’t seem to want to. 

“Okay?” Derek hazards. He’s not sure where this is going, but knowing Stiles it’s not good.

“Yeah, something like ‘my friend said he banged you when you were both in New York. Derek Hale. Hot in a broody way. True or false?’ ”

“What?”

Stiles goes to elbow him, then seems to think better of it. Still, he’s derisive. “Don’t deny it. You’re hot and broody now, you were hot and broody at deaged sixteen, and there’s no way you weren’t hot and broody in New York.”

“No, I think he meant what why did you do that,” Scott says helpfully.

“Two reasons. One, because if he’s bi it’s shitty that he’s closeted. There needs to be more bi visibility in the world, it can’t be all Freddie Mercury and Billie Joe Armstrong.”

“Outing people is shittier,” Scott points out.

Stiles snorts. “Like anyone believes anything the comments say. My reply’s already buried, and trust me, no average viewer clicks through six pages of Youtube comments. That being said, I did get a private message. A user that’s pretty clearly a sockpuppet wants a picture from that time period.”

Derek sighs. Stiles is a walking Venn Diagram of useful and completely fucking oblivious. “How many times do I have to say I don’t take pictures of one night stands?”

“Of you, idiot. Do you have one?”

If Stiles is asking that it means he doesn’t know about Derek’s old Facebook page. Which means Derek’s not going to tell him. Stiles doesn’t need to know everything, all the time. The last thing Derek wants is Stiles Liking a picture of Laura.

“I could. But I won’t. I don’t care enough about your hero worship to get in contact with him.”

Scott makes a face. “I don’t think it’s about that anymore. He probably thinks you’ll try to blackmail him.”

“He can’t be that famous.” There’s no way. Derek fucked a curly haired redhead in a worn sloganed t-shirt, not Keanu Reeves.

“He’s totally famous enough for blackmail,” Stiles disputes. He’s walking backwards now to face them while talking, because his self-preservation skills are completely atrophied at this point, if they ever existed in the first place. “Do you know how many views his vids get? More importantly, do you know how many views he gets from close-minded fifteen to twenty five year old boys? If it ends with a -phobia or a -ism they’ve got it covered. You have to say hello, you wouldn’t want him to think that he’s gotta say something during the next Let’s Play.”

“I thought you wanted to out him as bi.”

“I, me personally, Stiles, does. But wider perspective, omnipresent me? Blackmail’s a whole lot different than quietly presenting the situation. The one comment doesn’t put him in a mandatory situation. But you leaving it like this... You don’t want to force it. We wouldn’t have to put up with the negative consequences he would.”

Derek would really like to know how this unfolded to become his fault, when Stiles is the dumbass with the laptop and the guilty fingers. Also, he _heard_ that ‘we’. Stiles used a plural pronoun and Scott didn’t react at all, not even through uncontrollable scent, which means Scott already knew about him. Which means regardless of Stiles’ morality speech now, the teenage dickhead’s already outed one person.

Scott shrugs. “Email him, send him a pic, tell him your friend’s an idiot-”

“Hey!”

“-and that he doesn’t have to reply, you don’t need to talk.”

“I-”

Derek doesn’t get to finish his annoyed retort, because that’s when Stiles’ left leg bursts through a rotten well cover and he’s stuck up to the groin. Scott doesn’t want to just yank him out, worried about what thumb sized splinters could do to Stiles’ femoral artery. Rescue authorities can’t be called, because Stiles isn’t supposed to be out of the house. A part of Derek doesn’t even want to save him, because that’s what you get for not looking where you’re going, and it would be great if Stiles learned a lesson once in his damn life. By the time Derek’s dropping them both off in the back lane -Stiles’ Jeep still visibly in the driveway so the neighbours can’t rat him out- the conversation is thoroughly dropped.

At least until Stiles sends him a two word email, one of those words being a Youtube username. Then Derek is cursing through his bite of grilled cheese and vindictively happy Stiles’ favourite jeans were shredded from crotch down.

The thing about Scott is, for all that Derek loathed a man like Gerard touching him, which was entirely Scott’s fault, nine times out of ten he’s a good problem solver. After giving it a bit of thought, Derek follows the younger man’s suggestion. He messages a pic to the account Stiles told him, and types something to the effect of _I didn’t know what my friend was going to do, but I didn’t even know you’re internet famous, so it’s not like I was about to ruin your career by telling my friends about a two year old conquest, please go about your day._

What Scott didn’t anticipate -to be fair neither did Derek- is Michael writing back.

**You’ve seen me. What do you look like now? Any more tattoos? I’ve got three.**

Against Derek’s better judgement, he takes a selfie.

**What electronic are you on? You have Facetime? Skype? Fuckin AOL with video enabled?**

Derek hasn’t talked to Michael since Laura was alive, but it doesn’t take detailed personal knowledge to know the last one is sarcastic. It shows how much time Derek’s spent with teenagers that he wants to spitefully download AIM just to make Michael talk on it. Instead he takes the high road and opens Skype.

“Damn, you cleaned up. And by cleaned up I mean got all scruffy and shit. It’s hot.”

“You...got a hat?” Derek finishes lamely.

Michael bursts into laughter. “Oh my fucking god, I didn’t remember you being an idiot.”

Derek glares.

“Dude, it’s cool. Literally all of my friends are idiots. Doesn’t make you less hot.”

Derek’s beginning to understand why Stiles likes this guy.

“So you’re obviously not an electrician anymore.”

“Ha ha ha, fuck no. Are you- shit, you were in school for something?”

“I’m a landlord, and I consult for the sheriff.” True, if not in the way the guy will assume.

“That’s cool. So, anyway, I was thinking you should take your pants off.”

“What?”

“You had to realise I’d want to hook up again. Except there’s this thing where you’re in New York and I’m in Texas.”

“California, actually.”

“Okay, point still stands. The two largest states aren’t exactly New York to Jersey. So we take our pants off and jerk it, and if you ever come to the state of Everything’s Bigger,” Michael pointedly looks down, “you know where to find me.”

Part of Derek thinks he shouldn’t be so desperate. His fling with Braeden was recent, and refreshingly not a disaster. But to put it bluntly, it’s been a year since he’s had a dick in his face. This isn’t quite the real deal, but it’s better than hitting on Liam’s jailbait friend.

“Do you have time right now?”

“No. No I don’t. I asked you to take your pants off now and I want you to keep them off until next Tuesday, which is the only day of the week I jerk off. Jesus Christ.”

Yeah, he can definitely see why Stiles like him.

Derek deals with it the same way he would Stiles; rolled eyes and ignoring the jab. “I can’t jerk off sitting up. Give me a second.”

Derek unplugs the laptop and carries it into the bedroom. He puts it on top of the blanket, then does the shake and flex dance required to get the tight jeans off. Underwear are next, Derek throws those through the field of vision of the camera. Foreplay, at least if Michael recognises the white blur. The last step of set up is laying on the bed. He reclines as though the bed is a chaise lounge, shoulders and neck supported by the headboard, legs and ass on the sheets, back diagonal. The laptop goes on his thighs where Michael should have a good view of his dick, but also abs.

In the time it’s taken Derek to strip, Michael’s also taken his clothes off. He’s still upright, in a fancy computer chair, and Derek has to wonder if he’s at work. It’s plausible, most households don’t have a computer chair that expensive. But even if it is true, so what? If Michael gets caught that’s his problem.

“So one two three go?” Michael asks.

In return, Derek curls his fingers around his cock and starts a slow tight squeeze upwards. The almost pain of anticipation always gets his precome flowing, enough that he doesn’t need lotion.

On his screen Michael’s got a completely different technique. He’s sitting low in the chair, right hand on his dick, left hand massaging his balls. Derek’s always admired guys who can do that. His own are too sensitive to get any enjoyment from rough handling.

Derek keeps his eyes forward on Michael as he speeds his hand. Never has the mirror corner seemed more of a waste of space. He couldn’t care less what he looks like jerking off. All he wants is to see Michael, from ruddy complexion to Zelda tattoo to fingers on his nutsack. It would be even better if he could taste him, smell him. The two senses are even closer in werewolves than they are in the rest of society. Sadly Michael’s colourful skin under his tongue isn’t currently an option.

“Should I come on your face, or my face?”

The truth is if Michael were in the room Derek would absolutely want to be jizzed on. He’d return the favour, of course. Mutual claiming and all. But they’re a thousand miles apart, at least if Michael’s telling the truth. So Derek doesn’t really see how it’s possible.

“How would you come on me?”

“Jerk off onto the screen. That plus a suspension of disbelief means one great facial waiting in the wings.”

Derek shakes his head. Slowly. One rotation to the left, pause, the right, pause, the left. Authoritatively. “I want you to come all over yourself for me.”

Michael’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. Then he overcompensates. “Sir yes sir!”

Order following has never been a kink of Derek’s, despite what his pack might say. Especially his lost pack. He only ever wanted them to be safe, and he knew better than them how to make that happen. That being said, he likes this. He likes that he’s aroused Michael so much he’s being a dick about it.

Michael curls over himself as he comes. Derek misses the o-face, but the next moment makes up for it. When Michael looks up again his face is covered in spunk. Just _covered_.

“Sir happy sir?” Michael asks, the lightest bit out of breath, come dripping off his cheek.

“Fuck, yes,” Derek nearly growls out. Michael’s wet translucently white face is all he needs. He bites the inside of his cheek as he yanks harshly on his cock until his balls throb and empty. Michael bursts into golfers applause.

“You’re a shit,” Derek tells him, no condemnation in his tone.

“Yeah, well. You knew that the first time you fucked my ass too. I said I got tattoos, not had a morality one-eighty.”

Derek just smirks. It’s not like he’s got anything against it. He has a thing for terrible attitudes, what can he say?

“So what’s the etiquette for this? Do I just hang up? It’s not like you can make me a walk of shame coffee.”

Michael shrugs, tongue unconsciously licking a speck of jizz off his lips. “If you really want a nostalgia flashback you can watch me play a game?”

“Sounds good. Just let me put on a pair of pants.”

“You do that, I’ll clean the spooge off my face.”

Two days later Stiles is officially ungrounded. Just in time for everyone to be crashed out at the McCall house, recuperating. Despite best efforts, the basilisks weren’t found until after hatching. On the bright side the number killed corresponds to the shredded leather-like shells they found, so the problem should be over. On the other side, they’re all pretty messed up. 

Kira -along with her sword- was the best fighter this time, but since the venom flows up any weapon, her arms are heavily damaged. She and Malia are both covered in weeping sores, and the sheets they’re resting on will probably have to be destroyed. Liam’s strategy -and by that Derek means Mason’s instruction- is constant running water to dilute the toxin. The shower must be lukewarm at best by now. Derek’s pain is interrupted. He shifted to all wolf to fight, and that’s the part of him that took the damage. When he’s got some time he’ll shift back and curl up in the woods and suffer, but right now he wants to be with his pack. His Alpha. It’s the same reason Malia and Kira are napping here, same reason Liam is showering with Mason sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. Even Lydia, who feels no supernatural attraction, is sitting on the left edge of the couch, apparently unphased that one cushion away Scott’s sitting on a spread beach towel, naked except for boxers to give his wounds room to breathe.

Stiles bursts up suddenly, probably about to put a movie on. Stiles doesn’t really do silence, even the kind that he should find comforting. To prevent artificial sounds and sights from invading this moment of quiet triumph Derek says something he knows will start a conversation. He can handle talk, as long as it’s Pack talk.

“Just so you know, Michael has angry orgasms.”

Stiles trips mid-step and crashes to the floor. “He? What? How do you? Did you fly to Austin? Is that what you spent the recovered Hale fortune on, a trans-state booty call? Scott! Help me, I’m dying!”

Scott watches placidly, unconcerned as Stiles writhes on the floor like a flipped over turtle, words clearly not enough to express his turmoil. Good. That’s the way Derek likes Stiles best; funnily over-dramatic but not his problem.


End file.
